


It was a dark and horny night

by queefqueen, Tommyginger



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 03:31:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queefqueen/pseuds/queefqueen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tommyginger/pseuds/Tommyginger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Captain of Gondor had to pass through Edoras en route to Imladris. What if some romantic spark had passed between the hearty warrior and the grim shieldmaiden? Would their hearts flutter to the same tune? How much would Eomer interfere? Would they stay shackled by the conventions of courtly love? Or will they do it like they do it on Discovery Channel? PWP</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First skirmishes

AN:

Inspired and co-written by the licentious muse known as TommyGinger, the true jewel amongst the Yammering Muses!

Edoras, summer of 3018 TA

It was a dark and stormy night in Edoras. The wind howled, the lightening flashed and rain pounded the roof of the Golden Hall.

"Oh, how I wish that someone pounded me so", came the sigh through the perfect lush pink lips, with the lower lip swollen from being sucked with unquenched desire for loving and being loved. Eowyn, Princess of Rohan, was on the prowl.  
Any man in his right mind would have wanted her...but none were brave enough to cross her brother Eomer. And so...year after year...Princess Eowyn remained untouched and unloved. And it was driving her to distraction. Just when she had made up her mind to run away, the Steward of Gondor sent his oldest son to Rohan. Now, in the flickering light of the Hall, Eowyn watched the man as a panther watches its prey. A fierce warrior who had seen his share of danger at the hands of orcs and evil men, he had no way of knowing that his greatest foe stood just at his shoulder, ready to refill his drink.

Using all the intelligence bred into her by her distaff Numenorean lineage which had infused her blood with the Wisdom of the Eldar, she did not fill his massive horn from the front. Instead she cunningly slinked up from his blind flank. This gave her the pretext to drape her breast over the Gondorian knight's shoulder.  
Feeling the warm, supple flesh - which his thirty years of warrior experience immediately identified as BOOB - Boromir felt blood escape his brain with a joyous war cry and speed towards his outlying members.  
The grizzled frontline rapist slowly turned his head and looked up. He expected to see hooded, lust filled orbs of a wanton serving wench, with her breast swelling like the tidal surge at Harlond. Instead his grey orbs met the lust filled glaze from under the half hooded grey eyes of a lascivious princess, whose breasts undulated like the rump of a mare galloping across the plains of Rohan.

Boromir suddenly felt his breath leave his lungs as he stared into the face of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Hair like spun gold, skin like white marble, lips like rose petals that promised sweet kisses...and the boobs...how could he forget those lush boobs? Just as his eyes locked with hers and the rest of the world seemed to slip away, a large hand reached out and grabbed the maiden.  
His first instinct was to draw his fell blade and defend her, but before he could do anything more than register surprise...he heard the words that froze his heart.

"Sister, the night grows late and I would not have you exhaust yourself waiting upon a table of drunken men. Come, take your leave of the king and I will walk you to your chambers."

The loss of contact with the ethereal phenomena made a feral warg like howl rise in his throat. Feeling her move away made him feel pain as acute as that he felt when - left for dead - he had attracted the attentions and ministrations of a Mordor Uruk's cock. He immediately stifled that howl, same as then. But, unlike that time when he lay beneath the Uruk whose stench was stronger than "Troll groin" Beregond's from 3rd Coy, he could not find his release in biting the "brother's" nose off. Drawing upon his courtier's training he suavely waved his horn at the delightful female and ejaculated:  
"Mead?"

...Eomer narrowed his eyes as he looked at the Gondorian, smiling and holding his horn out towards his sister. Something about the man triggered a primal rage deep within him and he had to hold back a sudden desire to growl and rip his throat out. No one dared look upon his sweet sister with such open longing...at least none that did not want to meet a swift and painful death. Apparently this steward's son did not know of whom he was dealing with.  
" I am sorry, Lord Boromir, but I must deprive you of my sister's company. She is still too young to keep such late hours and I would have her in the safe confines of her bower. If you will excuse us, I will take her there now. When I return perhaps you can finish entertaining me with your tales of battle. Come sister."

And with that Eomer wrapped a protective arm around Eowyn's waist and half-dragged her from the table. All the while, the princess never took her eyes from Boromir's...promising much with her gaze and asking for more. He knew with a certainty he had never felt before that he would have this maiden for his own, in every way that a man could have a woman, she would be his.


	2. Moving into position

It was physical pain for Boromir to watch them walk away. His only consolation was the sight of the princess' hips swaying with the rhythm of the thrust and parry which passed between a man and a woman when they joined, a rhythm ancient as Arda herself. He now forced himself to put his brain to work. He manfully ignored the excruciating pain of his gorged to the borders of reason manhood. The acute discomfort was compounded by the head doing a peek a boo act from underneath the protective shield of the foreskin and chaffing against his breeches.

As supreme strategist of Gondor - after Da, of course - he had to come up with a plan. A plan! YES! Just a fortnight before they had a map exercise, Case Open Folds, the invasion of Rohan! He was to lead a raid and murder the dwellers of Meduseld in their beds so he had memorised the floor plan! He KNEW where those certain folds ... he smacked his lips ... would be tonight...

As she and her brother walked the darkened halls of Meduseld, Eowyn's heart pounded as she remembered their guest's broad shoulders, strong arms and wicked eyes. Just as a blush rose to her cheeks, her brother's voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Sister...it did not escape my attention the way Lord Boromir looked at you...and the way you looked at him. I suggest you put any thoughts of him out of your pretty little head, because I will not have it - do you hear me? That is no man worthy of your attention, much less your love. You will remain here with me and our uncle, under our protection. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, brother, of course I do," said Lady Eowyn as her brother's grip tightened around her arm. For a moment he stared at her in a way that almost frightened her. But before she could say anything more ... he suddenly jerked her away from the door to her chambers.

"Come, sister. Tonight I will have your sleep in my bed where I can rest assured you will be safe. Your ladies will attend you and watch over you until I return. In the meantime, I will leave Eothain and Hama outside the door to stand guard. Get some rest, dearest one." And with that, Eomer stooped to kiss her cheek and push her thru the door to his rooms.

Eowyn was shocked but could think on the hoof, as befitted a daughter of the Mark. She swirled like a she cat to face her brother and exclaimed:  
"Oh Brother mine, but I have to go to my room!"  
"And why is that, oh Sister Mine?"

He gazed upon her with his steely gaze of hazel eyes which gave maidens wobbly knees and his loyal steed Firefoot an erection.  
"Why, Brother mine, I am having my girly days! Surely you do not wish for me to bleed my clots all over your linens?" and pressed her body against his, her crotch against his thigh. "Let you know that my flow is heavy, flowing like the Snowbourne gushing with the runoff of melting snows, with clots like boulders rolling down the thalweg."

Eowyn could only watch in shock and a growing sense of fear as her brother seemed to have some kind of fit outside the door to his chambers. She had no way of knowing that...in telling her brother of her womanly courses...she had, in effect, waved a red flag in front of his very eyes. A BIG red flag. Unbeknownst to a sweet maid like Eowyn, there were certain men, very manly men - her brother being one of them - who became horribly repulsed at the thought of such an innocent event.

He swooned from the ground-zero impact of this psychological attack. And it awoke a memory long ago pushed to some dark depths of his mind. When a lad of but 16 summers he had lifted the kilt of an orc warrior, curious about the blood streaks on its thighs. The only visible damage the corpse carried was the loss of head - so why the blood there?  
What he had seen and smelt there haunted him to this day.

He jumped away from his sister, imagining that through her skirts he felt warm dampness and - with feline grace - made a half turn in flight, spewing his ale seven feet down the corridor. Turning back towards her with a feral gleam in his eye, Eomer grabbed his sister and nearly lifted her from her feet.

"On the contrary, my sister. The idea of you in such delicate a condition only hardens my resolve to keep you safe. You are an innocent virgin and have no way of knowing such things...but men like Lord Boromir would see your feminine blood as a means to ease their taking of you. Men like that are little more than fiends...no doubt he has smelled it on you and that is what drives his animal lust for you. I demand that you stay with me, under my protection, until such time as he leaves or you stop bleeding. Only then will your precious maidenhead be safe from that rutting boar of Gondor."

Hearing such delightfuly disgusting insights into male minds Eowyn decided to play the swooning maid card. She telegraphed the whites of her eyes to Eomer and crumpled like a kleenex to the floor.


	3. Battle is joined

"Eowyn! Dearest sister, what has happened? Hama, quickly...send for a healer. Eothain...help me get the princess back to her own chambers."

The distress over seeing his sister swoon, coupled with his growing nausea at the thought of her bleeding onto his bed, nearly brought the great horse lord to tears. Though he might have preferred she spend the night in the safety of his strong arms, he knew it was best for both of them that she remain in her own bed...with her own linens.

No sooner had he placed her head onto her own pillows than he saw her beautiful eyes flicker open.

"Shhhh..peace, sister. Do not try to speak. You must rest and regain your strength. No doubt your blood loss, coupled with the lustings of Lord Boromir, have served to weaken you. I have sent for a healer and will have your maids prepare a warm bath for you. I will be back to check on your first thing in the morning."

Pressing a tender kiss upon her brow, Eomer turned to leave. His mind was already racing ahead to what he would do to that Gondorian bastard if he so much as looked at his precious sister again.

Little did he know that at the same time, his precious sister's thoughts were also occupied with thoughts of what to do with that same Gondorian.

Eowyn decided she must take a bath. She wanted everything to be Just Right. He was a Gondorian gentleman, after all, and she did not wish to judge her a slobby sleazo. She turned to her literature. Although the chapter on begetting of the eight edition of "On the Grooming of the Proper Gondorian Maiden" sent the reader to her "Mother or other senior female relative of high respectability to explain what are the expectations towards a Proper Gondorian Maiden on such an occasion", a footnote suggested refreshing one's acquaintance with the contents of the chapter on bathing.

A line from that chapter which struck her was that "even though a Maiden might entertain unchaste thoughts that washing her future child feeding appendages may be of interest to some imaginary onlookers, let it be known to the Maiden that such onlookers would be brutes of the lowest order and no intercourse with such individuals is recommended, nor should such thoughts be entertained, either before or after marriage. Hopefully the Maiden's Father or other Guardian would not select such a man for the Maiden's Husband, deftly seeing through such a cad's camouflage. Of greater importance to the Maiden's hygiene - than her chest appendages - is the cleanliness and fragrance of the areas surrounding the places associated with the excretion of the products of digestion, be these fluids or solids. One cannot emphasise enough the need for thorough lathering of such areas, both the hair covered in front and the hopefully hairless cleavage between the pillow shaped parts of the Maiden's body upon which she customarily sits in the rear. Throughout the process the Maiden should keep her thoughts chaste and focused on cleanliness. She should not touch herself more than necessary for the cleaning process. Experience has shown that thinking of delicate, white coloured fabrics is conductive to keeping the mind on track. A Maiden is allowed a light dosing of suitable scent on those areas after a bath without risk of loosing good repute. Such an applied scent should not be too strong, however, and should correspond to any other scents the Maiden may be wearing."

The Horse Lady pouted – "so much drivel to say - wash tits, cunny, crack; don't rub nub?"

Boromir decided to take a bath. He wanted everything to be Just Right. She was a Rohanian noblewoman, after all, and he did not wish her to find him to be some slobby cad. As his experience was chiefly with camp followers he tried to remember whether the benchmark textbook "On the Grooming of the Proper Gondorian Squire" beaten into him as a teenager said anything specific on grooming before dalliances. He remembered his disappointment from that period when he discovered that the chapter on begetting sent the reader to his "Father or other senior male relative of high respectability to explain what are the expectations towards a Proper Gondorian Squire on such an occasion". His memory dredged up a footnote directing to the chapter on bathing. Ha! He was on the right track! While lathering the good ol' wedding tackle and bollocks he tried to keep his thoughts chaste, thinking about soft pillows, the clouds in the sky, children playing ... children ... baby bumps ... no, back! Back! Birds singing, ships on the Anduin, the White City, white linen sheets, white linen sheets on bed, woman on white linen sheets on bed ... NO! No! Back! Dandelions ... seeds...planting seeds...planting MY seed ... Nooooooo... back to dandelions ...To curb the excessive enthusiasm of his giblets he recalled how freaked out he was when his Father, the Lord Steward Denethor, in a rare attempt at pro-active parenting, had told him to "pull the skin back and scrub under the rim". This memory immediately made the one eyed trouser snake slither back to its lair. Happily the Scouring of the Crack and Dreadlocks did not elicit such naughty thoughts.

Boromir dressed himself in the garment prepared for his raid upon Meduiseld. It was a jacket and matching breeches of figure hugging black leather. The leather was of such workmanship that it was soft and did not limit his movements. He smeared the parts of his visage not covered with manly facial fur with soot and killed the lights in his room. He slipped through a crack in the shutter onto the windowsill like a wily pussy. He then skipped from windowsill to windowsill like a squirrel from one branch to another until the Sword of Gondor landed before the Princess's window. There he crouched like a hidden dragon and scratched at the wood like a hungry animal.

AN:

"On the Grooming of the Proper Gondorian Maiden" and "On the Grooming of the Proper Gondorian Squire" - both titles and contents inspired by the Ladies of the Garden of Ithilen, who quote publications of this type in their works.


	4. Battle Royal

The White Lady thought that some wayward kitty was suffering on her windowsill and opened the shutters to aid the poor creature. Instead of a pussy she saw an enormous black toad squatting on her windowsill and eying her with grey orbs blinking in the light. She gasped with an audible GASP-like sound! In a girly gesture the shapely maiden brought her slender fingered hands covered with sword practice scars to her flaming, pale cheeks.

"Oh my goodness!" she exclaimed boldly. "Do you need a kiss, My Prince?"

A closer examination unmasked the apparition to be the Prince Steward in the flesh, in black leathers barely hiding his massive thighs and endless mounds of chest and arm muscles. Now SHE needed a kiss!

He gracefully swooped off the windowsill into the room and boldly siezing her orbs in the gaze of his unflinching eyes he announced with the modesty of a scion of the Sea Kings.

"I am the answer to all your dreams!"

The shieldmaiden saw the lust in his eyes and the Insight of the Men of Westernesse which had been reborn in her in those Last Days hinted - "he thinks I'm purdy!"

Open eyed she watched the drool worthy hunk of Gondorian manflesh slither the final yard. He towered over her like Orthank over the Gap of Rohan and with a whoosh of inhaled air crushed her lips with his. First came the duel of the tongues, darting in lightening raids from behind the bulwarks of teeth, making light footed hit and run attacks, with touch and go brushes with the enemy.

Once their war machines put their act together and their toes curled, their tongues threw themselves into suicidal attacks plundering the cavernous mouth of the other for every drop of pleasure, thus ensuring mutual destruction by severance of lines of communication. Intertwined and brutally fighting for domination their wicked tongues were soon bruised and twisted out of shape yet begging for more. Their knees feeling like molten sugar the pair dropped to the floor. Once their tongues were exhausted from looting all available wet cavities and belly up with exhaustion they began to nibble hungrily at their lower lips. Supper had been light.

Their crotches were painfully swollen with inflowing blood and begging for release. The warg strangling hands of the gallant descendant of the slave dealing Seafaring Kings roamed over the body of the daughter of a long line of glorified horse rustlers, tugging lustfully at any stray piece of lacing within grasp. The result was predictable and inevitable – unlacing the bodice quickly became impossible.

"Men!" - came a hiss from the swollen and bleeding lips of the Shieldmaiden. She brought her smooth skinned hands up and grabbed at her collar - she jerked at the material and ripped the front of her dress down to her belly. The sound of ripping material excited her even further and she squeezed and rubbed her thighs in anticipation of more ripping.

Her twin orbs of delight tumbled out of the ruins of her frilly undershift and were greedily grasped by the Captain General like the One Ring by Gollum. He latched upon her left breast like a hungry puppy.

Eowyn was about to arch her back at his course tongue's assault at her hardening nipple when something in her memory told her they were doing it wrong! The romances circulating amongst the female population of Meduseld always had the man beginning at the maiden's right breast. So she moaned only a little and asked: "shouldn't you caress my right breast first?"

Boromir lifted his saliva glistening mouth from her left mound and grunted sagely: "right hand - sword arm; left hand - lady pleasure arm" and now nibbled on her goose bump covered aureole. Comfortable with her new knowledge the Horse Maiden now arched her back and moaned as was proper in such circumstances.

He was turning her into a writhing pile of goo by kissing her lower belly and inner thighs, by caressing those places with his coarse hands and by scrubbing the bush of his beard against her heavily muscled thighs. The depths of her mind were wordlessly whimpering for something which only the rarest, the most thumb worn and suspiciously stained of texts had hinted at.

For The Tongue THERE.

The powerful arms which effortlessly tore orc heads off their brazen shoulders spread asunder her thighs with the gentleness of a mother's hand prying open the mouth of a "shall not eat" child.

BEMA!

She heard him sniff at her curls. She knew they were the colour of beaten brass. After riding, after scratching her sweaty and itchy crotch, her slim hand always brought up a few dainty curls stuck to her slender fingers. The Captain of Gondor sniffed again and the White Lady froze, her face red like a constipated Rider having another try at release in the privy. Did she smell?!

She did.

To the fell slayer of the Haradrim her axe wound gave of the fragrance off the sweetest feminine perfume known to the race of Men. That of a woman who wanted HIM!

Incapable of holding back any longer the Gondorian head butted her pelvic bone and rooted in the minge for her nub like a truffle crazed swine. Once he had found the glistening gem he lapped at it like a thirsty warg.

The moment his tongue touched her pink jewel she almost bucked him off the bed...her hips shooting up in a reflexive action. A tingle shot up her body and seemed to explode in her brain. All conscious thought abandoned her...all she knew is she must have more...more of his tongue ... more of him.

Reaching down between her legs she grabbed at the back of his head...as if to say „stay down there where you can do me some good, my precious". She wasn't going to let him go anywhere...never going to let him stop giving her this pleasure. This was nothing like her foolish maids had ever described ... this was like fire shooting thru her veins. The longer his tongue lapped at her ... now pressing harder and harder against her nub... and his fingers inside her Vaults ... the closer she came to something ... she knew not what ... but it was as if her body was being drawn to the edge of a cliff and all she could hear was the pounding of her own heart and the rushing of her own blood and she realized she was screaming his name and begging him not to stop. She tilted her hips to push her crotch even more into his face as she yanked on his hair and clawed at the sheets with her other hand.

Vaguely she realized tears were rolling down her cheeks but she wept not of pain or grief but of pure pleasure and then it hit her and she felt as though she'd left her body and was falling...falling into blackness like Numenor slipping under the waves before stars exploded all around her.


	5. The final thrust

Looking at her limp, quivering form spread on the bed before him Boromir felt like Eru's gift to women. He had a smug, self satisfied shit face grin on his usually grim facade. He slid upon the bed next to her jelly-like like body and looked into her half conscious eyes. He patted her on the cheek. There was no reaction. He showed her three fingers but her eyes continued to scream emptiness. He showed her one finger and saw a spark of interest. He saw her lips move. He brought his ear over her mouth to catch the barely discernable whisper.

"Moar".

After arranging her limbs in a convenient manner he positioned himself at her entry. His sword slid into her well oiled and welcoming scabbard. He immediately buried himself to the hilt, leaving only two daintily dangling furry acorns outside. The Silent Death of Ithilien Woods released a deep groan of satisfaction. This was so much better than polishing his sword on his own. She was a snug fit but her wetness made their coupling comfortable to both. He plunged the depths of the Daughter of Eorl with frenzied vigour. His Balrog of the Properly Groomed Gondorian Maiden's Bliss rammed into her with wanton abandon. But through the slapping of flesh against flesh he heard her moan in protest. He saw her lips move. More of her voice and wits had returned.

She pushed him off her. The severance of their physical bond brought him close to tears of a child burying its pet bunny.

"My Lord Boromir, we are in the Mark, the land of the Horse Lords."

Scratching delicately at his beard with her talons she continued.

"Here, when a woman wishes to show her man love and respect she allows him to take her like a stallion takes a mare. In this manner the couple praises Bema for their joy."

The White Lady rose on her elbows and kissed Gondor Defender's lower lip and her grey orbs gazed with the softness of down into the grey windows of the soul.

She gazed warmly at his glistening wet whiskers and beard. She touched them with the pink tip of her finger and asked softly:

"Me?"

He nodded smugly and licked himself life a cat which got in the cream with a lascivious gleam in the eye.

"You like it?" - she asked with a timid and demure voice which would make the writer of the Grooming of the Proper Gondorian Maiden proud.

The usually grim mien of the Gondorian Squire was radiating self satisfaction like heat from well stocked dwarrow furnace.

"The Holy Horse position is also an expression of trust", the sister of Eomer continued, chastely casting the curtains of her blond see-through eyelashes over her eyes, "as the maiden shows that she trusts her rider to know his business and to poke his spear in the right place."

She looked upon him from under half-hooded eyes and sticking out her tongue a little she tasted herself on his moustache. She politely hid the smacking of her lips with her pearly white hand. Once again casting her half-obscured gaze into his slate coloured orbs she whispered seductively.

"Mount your mare, stud ... "

The shield maiden dropped onto her back and then rolled like a sow in mud onto her stomach and trustingly raised her pert backside to face his spear.

He admired her graceful cheeks and lust swollen folds, with the West Fold and East Fold sheltering the Vale of Dunharrow, where the tangles of the Dimholt Wood hid the Door to Her Core, the said Vale topped with the Golden Hall of Meduseld like a cherry on a cake.

The wet slaps of his sweat covered bikini area against her swollen and dripping womanly mouth, the rising waves of hot air carrying the musk of their mixed juices up to the rafters drove him into a mating frenzy. He pounded at the pink valley glistening in the soggy tropical rainforest secreted between her two perfectly shaped butt cheeks like a battering ram against the gates of an unwilling city. In this position his powerful strokes, reminiscent of what Eowyn had seen so many times on the pastures and in the stables, grazed against the secret knot of pleasure hidden in her love canal. This almost instantly brought the Horse Lady to her first ever vaginal release, her inner walls contracting in delirious spasms and denying his seed any escape from their duty. She screamed Boromir's name into the mattress as she saw Valinor and grabbed Bema by the balls. The sensation of her inner being tugging at his manhood like the deft hands of a milkmaid on a cow's teats made him roar - MIRIEL - and squirt the essence of life into her depths in a loud and boisterous release.

Once he had shot his bolt Boromir collapsed onto the Princess' back. She gave of a stifled grunt of contentment. This made her feel useful and appreciated, like a good beast of burden. They had shared pleasure and now his faithful little mare could carry her White Knight anywhere. Additionally his sweat-slick, panting, warm 20 stone felt like bliss on all her strained muscles. And his bulk on her back made her feel like a petite mare, a sensation usually denied to the six foot and two hundred pound waif like shield maiden. She felt his now limp and quickly contracting manhood slide out with a wet pop from her proven womanhood. The princess felt a hot liquid running down her thigh. She tilted like a tip-cart and Boromir slid off her back unto the bed allowing her to have a look at what was running down her leg. She examined the mix of her slick and his semen, with a dash of blood in it, with curiosity.

While she was wriggling onto her back for a better look she was startled by a rush of air from her pleasure mine accompanied by a fart-sounding PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFT. A mix of terror at what was happening and shame at the sound grasped her by the throat like a furious Eomer and make her gasp for air. Boromir's suppressed chuckle painted her cheeks crimson red like the sun rising over Mordor. Had it not been her own room she would have bolted! She covered her fresh cheeks with a pillow and cried - "I'll never lie with a man again!"


End file.
